Up early again. Really, this kind of nonsense is irritating. Almost everyone I know is still asleep at this hour, and I would much rather visit the girls in the guesthouse than have them nosing around my home.
On the up side, I received an interesting e-mail has reached me, and I have decided to reply here. Once again, the message in its entirety, and then I will break it down.
Dear Mr. Miller,
I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's. I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me. It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland.
The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks. WTF am I suppose to do?
Is there any advice you can give?
Sincerely,
New Teeth
Well, NT, you have quite the conundrum on your hands, but I will advise you as best I can. Allow me to go through the ritual of breaking down your letter, and we'll see what comes of it.
"Dear Mr. Miller,"
Already, you have my attention and respect. A good start, young man, because the assumption that we're friendly enough that you can use my first name freely would cast doubt on the remainder of your message.
"I'm a young guy vampyre that was embraced in the early 90's."
I will assume you mean the 1990's, and not the 16, 17, or 1890's. Such details are important. In point of fact, by the standards of other vampyres, I remain "young" as well, despite my 171 years. There are those in our community that have greater faith in someone with more years. Armando Rodriguez, for example, who runs the NY region (which include the 12 northern counties if NJ). There is a little drama unfolding in my unlife over the fact that I am approximately 50 years older than the man he is currently using for my job in his region. While I may get to that another time, be assured that the specifics of your age are exceptionally important to some.
"I was only 17 and my life has been a mess since then. The ones who turned me are insane and make vampyres because they can. They killed my family to get to me and used my brother to embrace me."
Oh my. Let me be the first to say that I grieve for your circumstances. As you point out in your second paragraph, you are not trapped at an awkward age. This is merely a minor obstacle, though, when you consider that there have been fools through our history that have sired much younger vampyres.
Can you imagine being trapped at age 12? I know of only one still alive that was created at such a tender age. It took her decades to learn how to survive, and centuries to become powerful enough to oppose what was once law. Her name is Maria Santori, and whomever it was that brought her into our fold has been destroyed for the crime of turning a child. Because it was no fault of Maria's, she was granted 20 years to prove she could survive without serious aid of others.
She vanished. Yes, you read that correctly. Maria, under the watchful eyes of the Vampyre Council in Italy, disappeared without a trace when it was almost time for judgment to be made. For some time, it remained unknown what had happened to her, and records indicated that the council believed she'd surrendered to fate and faced her final sunrise.
They were wrong. What happened was that the one and only misfit amongst the misfits had learned the secret of the Sleep of Empowerment. This is a complicated ritual that involves sleeping for a very long time. My 25 years did not even come close to what she did. Without the proper ritual, I awoke with only a mild boost to my abilities. Maria not only completed that which is needed for empowerment, but slept for 600 years. When she reappeared, she was stronger and faster than the majority of the vampyre world, making it nigh impossible to follow through with any sentence that might be pronounced against her.
Consider yourself lucky that you were not 12 when you were turned, because now it is vampyre law that any such creation is to be immediately destroyed.
You also have my condolences on the loss of your family. I was forced to watch from afar as mine died of old age.
Oh...I will get to that insane group of vampyres later.
"It's not like I could run to my friends for help and Seattle isn't the capitol of Vampyreland."
Here, I must commend you on keeping your senses. Can you possibly imagine the mess you might have created had you gone to a friend and said, "My family has been murdered and now I'm a vampyre"? There are too many entropic values to even work out the situation mathematically. Whatever the results might have been, I cannot imagine any outcome being good.
For your information, Seattle falls under the jurisdiction of the Regional Princess, Molly Murphy. (Her true name is being withheld until certain facts can be verified.) Her base of operations is in San Francisco, and she controls Alaska, Arizona, California, Hawaii, Idaho, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, and Washington. (Territory in the United States is established using the Federal Reserve District Map.)
"The worst of it is that I'm stuck at 17. I didn't get to finish puberty and now I'm 17 forever. I feel like I have no place in the world of vampyres or mortals. Stealing for money sucks. Feeding hasn't been easy either because I don't know what I'm doing and end up sucking the blood of drunks."
Drunks?!? They are the "spoiled milk" of the vampyre diet! You might as well feed on vermin to survive.
As for being trapped at age 17, I believe I covered that.
"WTF am I suppose to do?"
You can imagine my confusion at this point, as my first guess was that "WTF" stood for "World Taekwondo Federation." Thankfully, a quick search on the Internet cleared that up swiftly and your sentence made sense again. I would like to stress that a degree of class become a part of your mien, even in e-mails, as you will be taken infinitely more serious without even abbreviated foul language.
"Is there any advice you can give?
"Sincerely,
"New Teeth"
Here is what I'm going to do. I am going to await a second e-mail from you. If you are serious about your dilemmas, then I will forward your e-mails to the Baron of Washington State, who will then probably contact the governor controlling Seattle. If you are a mortal playing some kind of game, I suggest you give up this up immediately. If you are who you say you are...
This rogue group of vampyres that turned you has been a thorn in the side of our community for some time. Without my services to hide some of the messes created by "dolts with fangs," there have been even greater disasters that many have scrambled to clean up. These lunatics spawning sirelings on a whim are a disaster, and I have been attempting to find whatever I can that might lead me to their source.
After contact is made by our authorities in Washington and you are properly educated, I will arrange for you to be given free reign over dealing with this particular problem. It will remove an issue from my growing list of tasks, and I can assure you that you will never have to steal to survive again.
No matter what you choose to do, I must make clear to you two things. Never, ever feed on another vampyre. Yes, your power would increase as you absorb all that is your victim, but it will also earn you the distrust of the entire vampyre community. The bounty placed on your head would likely have supernatural hunters appearing at your every turn. The other thing is discretion. If you bring our problems into mortal light, you will become a problem as well. Only if you wish to learn the exquisite agony of final sunrise will you make such a blunder.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Wal-Mart: they have EVERYTHING!
As I discovered last night, they have virgins available for purchase!
Okay, I confess that that's not entirely true. While it may be the fantasy of mortals and vampyres alike that Wal-Mart have a virgin aisle, it would be akin to those with unfulfilled paternal or maternal instincts wishing the baby section carried real babies. Still, the truth of the matter is that I acquired a pair of virgins last night, and they are splendid specimens.
Since I have awakened, I've been in need of a day-runner. Eddie - that lucky bastard - has Cheryl, whom he took on in the mid-1970's. She is a true day-runner, in that he feeds her three drops of his blood every month, and she ages slower, heals faster, and is immune to disease. Without that tiny dose of vampyric essence, Cheryl would slip into a coma and die within a week. She knew this before she took the position and didn't seem to mind at all. Her point of view is that she would at least die peacefully.
Little did Eddie know what a true prize she would turn out to be. Cheryl has a preternatural ability to read the Wall Street Journal beyond the words and numbers on the pages. Thanks to her, Eddie runs his cons and scams as a minor supplement to his existing wealth, but he need not do a thing if he chooses. And while she took on the responsibility of checking in on me when Eddie could not during my slumber, she is not mine. She bound to Eddie and answers only to him.
The day-runner's responsibilities are fairly basic. During the day, they do that which a vampyre cannot. Last night, I was presented with a task that I would have left to a day-runner. I discovered I needed light bulbs. And just because I am wealthy beyond anything I could have imagined back in the 1860's doesn't mean I throw away money when I could save it.
A fascinating aspect of California is that this State remains a repository for runaways. There is an illusion that the west coast offers some kind of haven, as well as easy opportunities for dreams to be fulfilled. Too few find anything as wonderful as their fantasies, and the innocents drawn to this place find themselves doing things they'd never imagined when they first ran away from home.
Thus, I was not entirely stunned when this girl, little more than a child, approached me haltingly and asked if I was "looking for a party." (Honestly, these lines adopted from movies can be so cliché!) She indicated a companion nearby that, to be perfectly honest, looked terrified at the prospect that I might agree.
It was quite the conundrum for me. I'd made my purchase, most of the night still lay before me, and I'd caught their scent. The pair of them were virgins!
Tina was the one that approached me. She's a mere 16 years, wide in the hips, with the permanently tanned complexion of her Mexican heritage. What I found most enticing about her, aside from the sweet scent of innocence coming off her, was her long, lustrous brown hair. Even braided, it fell to her waistline.
Shay is a year younger, and has the most perfect ebony skin I have seen in quite some time. She was almost glowing under the sodium lights of the parking lot. The poor girl already looked adorable in her fear that I would agree to take advantage of them, but I discovered later that she was dazzling when happy and smiling.
I beckoned Shay forward. "Let me guess," I said to the two of them. "In a fit of teenaged angst, the pair of you ran away individually and came here to chase some dream that has been shattered beyond repair. Starving, homeless, and growing desperate, you accidentally met and teamed together. Now you are offering, for lack of a better word, 'services' to earn an embarrassingly small amount of money - because you will not 'go all the way' to earn the big bucks - just to keep your stomachs from caving in. Now, because things are becoming infinitely worse, the duo of virgins is preparing to lose what they're not ready to lose, and also gearing up to do things with one another, all in the name of hopelessness and money. Am I correct?"
Two eyes became saucers. It's my job to pay attention to detail, and reading their expressions and body language could be accomplished by the blind. The only supernatural aspect hinted at was my knowledge that they had yet to commit the most sexual act.
While everyone in the vampyre community is tainted by a line of evil that stretches back countless millennia, not all are so debased as to destroy everything that comes within view. With this in mind, three thoughts came to me, and one of them was actually a kindness. First, I could gain a pair of day-runners. Next, if not inducted as Cheryl was, they could be a source of nourishment for me for quite some time. Finally, I could rescue them from the nightmare of their current lives.
I offered them a life, in exchange for running me a few errands during the day and allowing me to feed on one of them each night. I would alternate so as not to cause either any harm. The bonus is that the blood of the innocent is energizing. A few sips from a virgin neck is a meal unto itself with my kind. The final rule I laid before them was that they must retain their virginity until such time as all parties agreed it was time for them to be on their way.
What, pray tell, do they get in return? Well, let's start with the guesthouse on my property, with three bedrooms, a kitchen, full bathroom, living room, and dining room. Room and board will be provided by me in their entirety. Their every requirement will be met, along with a monthly allowance of $2,000 for each; they can spend it or save it as they like. What they do with their nights is up to them, provided one is on hand when I awaken, and that no guests are ever brought onto my property.
And to their utter dismay, I have arranged through Eddie for Cheryl to enroll them in high school. (Maybe I'm more evil than I thought.)
Okay, I confess that that's not entirely true. While it may be the fantasy of mortals and vampyres alike that Wal-Mart have a virgin aisle, it would be akin to those with unfulfilled paternal or maternal instincts wishing the baby section carried real babies. Still, the truth of the matter is that I acquired a pair of virgins last night, and they are splendid specimens.
Since I have awakened, I've been in need of a day-runner. Eddie - that lucky bastard - has Cheryl, whom he took on in the mid-1970's. She is a true day-runner, in that he feeds her three drops of his blood every month, and she ages slower, heals faster, and is immune to disease. Without that tiny dose of vampyric essence, Cheryl would slip into a coma and die within a week. She knew this before she took the position and didn't seem to mind at all. Her point of view is that she would at least die peacefully.
Little did Eddie know what a true prize she would turn out to be. Cheryl has a preternatural ability to read the Wall Street Journal beyond the words and numbers on the pages. Thanks to her, Eddie runs his cons and scams as a minor supplement to his existing wealth, but he need not do a thing if he chooses. And while she took on the responsibility of checking in on me when Eddie could not during my slumber, she is not mine. She bound to Eddie and answers only to him.
The day-runner's responsibilities are fairly basic. During the day, they do that which a vampyre cannot. Last night, I was presented with a task that I would have left to a day-runner. I discovered I needed light bulbs. And just because I am wealthy beyond anything I could have imagined back in the 1860's doesn't mean I throw away money when I could save it.
A fascinating aspect of California is that this State remains a repository for runaways. There is an illusion that the west coast offers some kind of haven, as well as easy opportunities for dreams to be fulfilled. Too few find anything as wonderful as their fantasies, and the innocents drawn to this place find themselves doing things they'd never imagined when they first ran away from home.
Thus, I was not entirely stunned when this girl, little more than a child, approached me haltingly and asked if I was "looking for a party." (Honestly, these lines adopted from movies can be so cliché!) She indicated a companion nearby that, to be perfectly honest, looked terrified at the prospect that I might agree.
It was quite the conundrum for me. I'd made my purchase, most of the night still lay before me, and I'd caught their scent. The pair of them were virgins!
Tina was the one that approached me. She's a mere 16 years, wide in the hips, with the permanently tanned complexion of her Mexican heritage. What I found most enticing about her, aside from the sweet scent of innocence coming off her, was her long, lustrous brown hair. Even braided, it fell to her waistline.
Shay is a year younger, and has the most perfect ebony skin I have seen in quite some time. She was almost glowing under the sodium lights of the parking lot. The poor girl already looked adorable in her fear that I would agree to take advantage of them, but I discovered later that she was dazzling when happy and smiling.
I beckoned Shay forward. "Let me guess," I said to the two of them. "In a fit of teenaged angst, the pair of you ran away individually and came here to chase some dream that has been shattered beyond repair. Starving, homeless, and growing desperate, you accidentally met and teamed together. Now you are offering, for lack of a better word, 'services' to earn an embarrassingly small amount of money - because you will not 'go all the way' to earn the big bucks - just to keep your stomachs from caving in. Now, because things are becoming infinitely worse, the duo of virgins is preparing to lose what they're not ready to lose, and also gearing up to do things with one another, all in the name of hopelessness and money. Am I correct?"
Two eyes became saucers. It's my job to pay attention to detail, and reading their expressions and body language could be accomplished by the blind. The only supernatural aspect hinted at was my knowledge that they had yet to commit the most sexual act.
While everyone in the vampyre community is tainted by a line of evil that stretches back countless millennia, not all are so debased as to destroy everything that comes within view. With this in mind, three thoughts came to me, and one of them was actually a kindness. First, I could gain a pair of day-runners. Next, if not inducted as Cheryl was, they could be a source of nourishment for me for quite some time. Finally, I could rescue them from the nightmare of their current lives.
I offered them a life, in exchange for running me a few errands during the day and allowing me to feed on one of them each night. I would alternate so as not to cause either any harm. The bonus is that the blood of the innocent is energizing. A few sips from a virgin neck is a meal unto itself with my kind. The final rule I laid before them was that they must retain their virginity until such time as all parties agreed it was time for them to be on their way.
What, pray tell, do they get in return? Well, let's start with the guesthouse on my property, with three bedrooms, a kitchen, full bathroom, living room, and dining room. Room and board will be provided by me in their entirety. Their every requirement will be met, along with a monthly allowance of $2,000 for each; they can spend it or save it as they like. What they do with their nights is up to them, provided one is on hand when I awaken, and that no guests are ever brought onto my property.
And to their utter dismay, I have arranged through Eddie for Cheryl to enroll them in high school. (Maybe I'm more evil than I thought.)
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Replies: Part 1
It would seem that my blog has garnered some attention, online and off. All seem to be along the same line of questioning, but I will start with my one and only electronic mail thus far. Its subject heading was “Squee!” I have no idea what this actually means. I looked it up and it has no definition. If someone could clarify, I would be most grateful.
First, the entire “e-mail,” and then I shall break it down.
Dear Chuck,
Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires! I hope to become one some day. But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog? I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny
Paragraphs, my dear…Paragraphs. New idea, new paragraph. Not that I’m what some might call a “grammar Nazi,” but it would help you to appear infinitely more intelligent if you were to separate your ideas. (I should talk, with all of my fragments and beginning sentences with a conjunction! Shame on us all, eh?)
Now for the breakdown.
“Dear Chuck,”
Okay…While I have no chance of getting Eddie to alter his habit of calling me by that moniker, I prefer Charles or Charlie. Chuck, Chucky, Big C, or, as a fledgling recently called me, “Yo, C”…They are all out. I am asking politely this time. If I must demand it, you will be most displeased.
“Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires!”
My thanks to Cheryl for clearing this up for me. For the unlife of me, I could not understand how one could “less than three vampires.” I still have much to learn, and that makeshift symbol is meant to be a heart, which in turn means love. Meanwhile, I suppose a kind of thanks is in order.
“I hope to become one some day.”
I sincerely doubt that. The process of becoming a vampyre scars the body, mind, and soul. I’ll get to it later, but this desire of yours certainly confirms the “misguided” part of your signature.
“But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog?”
An excellent question, and the part that requires most of my attention. It would seem Eddie asked something similar, although his exact words were, “Chuck, what the hell are you doing?!?” Cheryl summed it up with, “You’re crazy.” And a phone call from on high warned me to “be very, very careful.”
Meanwhile, I’m doing it simply to have something to do. “Immortal” is a word that is tossed about rather freely amongst the brethren and sisterhood. To be truly immortal is to be incapable of dying. I have already made it very clear that we can, in fact, experience true death. However, we stop aging after the embrace, and the years appear to grow longer during our existence. We need something to do. Collecting holy symbols has its limitations. There are only so many that can be acquired before the well runs dry. What’s more, that particular hobby of mine sometimes costs a great deal of money. But a blog…Here I have something to absorb my time that costs only as much as my Internet connection.
Well, that, and possibly my unlife should I make a mistake. And that’s why I’ve actually been bending some of the facts. My tales thus far, and those that will come in the future, run parallel to the truth. Do you honestly think Eddie’s last name is really Verdone? And Cheryl...I was stuck for making up a last name for her during my writing, and so she is just “Cheryl.” And my name…”Miller” is not only a fake last name, but so common that you could spend a lifetime searching and never find the correct person. When I named Jean-Paul du Lac…Well, he hasn’t used his proper name in centuries, and records (if you can even find them) show he died in 1669. (I only know his original name because it came up in conversation at a gathering in New York in 1967.) The time a mortal would have to invest into the real facts and track us down would, in the end, find someone in their twilight years confronting a powerful travesty of nature.
So, Misguided Bunny, and all others who are wondering what I’m doing, I am merely engaging in a new hobby.
“I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
“Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny”
Oh, you foolish, foolish little girl!
Vampyres are often creatures used to tell tales of horror. Indeed, we can be creatures that instill fear. It is the unknown that creates the most terror, and as creatures of the night, we exist in a realm where shadows hide many secrets. Sometimes, however, what is known can be even more terrifying.
I was kind and deleted your phone number for this very pubic post. I did so because, given the same resources that I have, a mere mortal could turn your life into a nightmare. As it is, imagine what a vampyre could do!
Oh, let’s not leave it to your imagination. Allow me to share what mine can do.
We establish contact, and for three months we get to know each other well. Correction: I get to know you well, while you buy into every fabrication with which I can come up. I make a call, give my three reasons for wanting to make you my sireling, and I agree to make your desire to become a vampyre a reality.
But why share this information with you. Everyone loves surprises, right?
Because of the resources at my fingertips, I already know all there is to know about your family. Like the handgun your father has, and his license to carry a concealed weapon. I already know your address, thanks to a few keystrokes on this marvelous computer of mine. I also know who lives at your home, and I assure you that your beloved little sister will be vital to your dreams.
My first step will be to make it impossible for anyone to make a call out of your home. The landline from your house, as well as every cell phone for 500 yards, will be useless. Will I sneak or barge in deep in the night? Oh, let’s have some fun and smash the front door off its hinges. Wake the whole family and have them wonder who might be so brazen.
Daddy comes running down the stairs, gun in hand, and, when he sees me, empties his Remington (silly James Bond fan) into my chest. I take the gun from him, removing a finger in the process, and lodge the weapon inside his head through the top of his skull. It would take little effort on my part to accomplish this much, and what will likely upset me most is that the hole where his finger used to be has pumped blood onto my $3,000 suit. (I own nothing that costs less than that.)
What a shame…Mommy has seen the whole thing. Well, we can’t have her screaming the way she is, so I extend all of my teeth and tear out most of her throat. Should she reach the Gates of Heaven, she can explain that her presence is due to her daughter’s inexplicable love of the unnatural.
Hmmm…Who’s left? Ah, yes! You and your darling little sister. At her tender age of 12, she’s likely still a virgin, and…Yes, I can smell it on her. That innocence! Oh, it is so sweet! While you cower in your room, trying desperately to figure out why your cell phone isn’t working, I find and forcefully escort your sister to where you are.
Now is the time for the classic monologue of the villain. “My dear, dear Misguided Bunny,” I begin, “here, at last, is where your dream of joining us comes true. So far, it has only cost you a set of parents. Now, unfortunately, it will also cost you a sister. You see, the embrace requires the blood of a virgin. It’s as close to purity as a mortal can get, and I must take in as much as I can and let my own essence corrupt it. The ritual of binding the pure with the impure is vital to the process. It only takes a few seconds for her blood to become properly tainted, and then I give it all back to you. It will be similar to the bite I give her, but it’s a reversal of the flow, forcing her altered blood into your body. When I am done, you will experience what we call a living death. For some, it is only mildly uncomfortable. For others, it is quite painful. For most, it’s somewhere in between.”
Then, whether or not you have changed your mind, I embrace you. As you are taken by the throes of living death, you catch glimpses of your sister on the floor, too weak to do anything but stare at the ceiling. She’s not dead. Not yet. A couple of weeks in a hospital and numerous transfusions, and she’ll be fine…provided she’s found soon enough.
Of course, you won’t be there to watch her recover, if she ever does. No, you and I must leave the scene as swiftly as possible, and get back to a safe house until we can catch a night flight the next day back to CA. You will never, ever be able to see her again. Any attempt to do so – to reattach yourself to your old life – will complicate things for our community, and likely lead to a sentence of final dawn. No more sunrises. No more sunsets. Do you enjoy food? You can forget that aspect of mortal life, because you will be on a diet that strictly consists of blood…
But this is imagination at play, dear Bunny. I refuse to prey on the young, and an adult virgin is a rarity. It’s why I have yet to have a sireling of my own. Besides, I would much rather keep you as a fan.
There is, of course, one thing about the above fantasy that truly bothers me. Imagine the true horror of ruining a $3,000 suit!
First, the entire “e-mail,” and then I shall break it down.
Dear Chuck,
Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires! I hope to become one some day. But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog? I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny
Paragraphs, my dear…Paragraphs. New idea, new paragraph. Not that I’m what some might call a “grammar Nazi,” but it would help you to appear infinitely more intelligent if you were to separate your ideas. (I should talk, with all of my fragments and beginning sentences with a conjunction! Shame on us all, eh?)
Now for the breakdown.
“Dear Chuck,”
Okay…While I have no chance of getting Eddie to alter his habit of calling me by that moniker, I prefer Charles or Charlie. Chuck, Chucky, Big C, or, as a fledgling recently called me, “Yo, C”…They are all out. I am asking politely this time. If I must demand it, you will be most displeased.
“Much love for your blog. I <3 vampires!”
My thanks to Cheryl for clearing this up for me. For the unlife of me, I could not understand how one could “less than three vampires.” I still have much to learn, and that makeshift symbol is meant to be a heart, which in turn means love. Meanwhile, I suppose a kind of thanks is in order.
“I hope to become one some day.”
I sincerely doubt that. The process of becoming a vampyre scars the body, mind, and soul. I’ll get to it later, but this desire of yours certainly confirms the “misguided” part of your signature.
“But what I don’t understand is why a member of the undead would start a blog?”
An excellent question, and the part that requires most of my attention. It would seem Eddie asked something similar, although his exact words were, “Chuck, what the hell are you doing?!?” Cheryl summed it up with, “You’re crazy.” And a phone call from on high warned me to “be very, very careful.”
Meanwhile, I’m doing it simply to have something to do. “Immortal” is a word that is tossed about rather freely amongst the brethren and sisterhood. To be truly immortal is to be incapable of dying. I have already made it very clear that we can, in fact, experience true death. However, we stop aging after the embrace, and the years appear to grow longer during our existence. We need something to do. Collecting holy symbols has its limitations. There are only so many that can be acquired before the well runs dry. What’s more, that particular hobby of mine sometimes costs a great deal of money. But a blog…Here I have something to absorb my time that costs only as much as my Internet connection.
Well, that, and possibly my unlife should I make a mistake. And that’s why I’ve actually been bending some of the facts. My tales thus far, and those that will come in the future, run parallel to the truth. Do you honestly think Eddie’s last name is really Verdone? And Cheryl...I was stuck for making up a last name for her during my writing, and so she is just “Cheryl.” And my name…”Miller” is not only a fake last name, but so common that you could spend a lifetime searching and never find the correct person. When I named Jean-Paul du Lac…Well, he hasn’t used his proper name in centuries, and records (if you can even find them) show he died in 1669. (I only know his original name because it came up in conversation at a gathering in New York in 1967.) The time a mortal would have to invest into the real facts and track us down would, in the end, find someone in their twilight years confronting a powerful travesty of nature.
So, Misguided Bunny, and all others who are wondering what I’m doing, I am merely engaging in a new hobby.
“I’m an insomniac, so you can call me any time. XXX-XXX-XXXX
“Many *HUGS!*
Misguided Bunny”
Oh, you foolish, foolish little girl!
Vampyres are often creatures used to tell tales of horror. Indeed, we can be creatures that instill fear. It is the unknown that creates the most terror, and as creatures of the night, we exist in a realm where shadows hide many secrets. Sometimes, however, what is known can be even more terrifying.
I was kind and deleted your phone number for this very pubic post. I did so because, given the same resources that I have, a mere mortal could turn your life into a nightmare. As it is, imagine what a vampyre could do!
Oh, let’s not leave it to your imagination. Allow me to share what mine can do.
We establish contact, and for three months we get to know each other well. Correction: I get to know you well, while you buy into every fabrication with which I can come up. I make a call, give my three reasons for wanting to make you my sireling, and I agree to make your desire to become a vampyre a reality.
But why share this information with you. Everyone loves surprises, right?
Because of the resources at my fingertips, I already know all there is to know about your family. Like the handgun your father has, and his license to carry a concealed weapon. I already know your address, thanks to a few keystrokes on this marvelous computer of mine. I also know who lives at your home, and I assure you that your beloved little sister will be vital to your dreams.
My first step will be to make it impossible for anyone to make a call out of your home. The landline from your house, as well as every cell phone for 500 yards, will be useless. Will I sneak or barge in deep in the night? Oh, let’s have some fun and smash the front door off its hinges. Wake the whole family and have them wonder who might be so brazen.
Daddy comes running down the stairs, gun in hand, and, when he sees me, empties his Remington (silly James Bond fan) into my chest. I take the gun from him, removing a finger in the process, and lodge the weapon inside his head through the top of his skull. It would take little effort on my part to accomplish this much, and what will likely upset me most is that the hole where his finger used to be has pumped blood onto my $3,000 suit. (I own nothing that costs less than that.)
What a shame…Mommy has seen the whole thing. Well, we can’t have her screaming the way she is, so I extend all of my teeth and tear out most of her throat. Should she reach the Gates of Heaven, she can explain that her presence is due to her daughter’s inexplicable love of the unnatural.
Hmmm…Who’s left? Ah, yes! You and your darling little sister. At her tender age of 12, she’s likely still a virgin, and…Yes, I can smell it on her. That innocence! Oh, it is so sweet! While you cower in your room, trying desperately to figure out why your cell phone isn’t working, I find and forcefully escort your sister to where you are.
Now is the time for the classic monologue of the villain. “My dear, dear Misguided Bunny,” I begin, “here, at last, is where your dream of joining us comes true. So far, it has only cost you a set of parents. Now, unfortunately, it will also cost you a sister. You see, the embrace requires the blood of a virgin. It’s as close to purity as a mortal can get, and I must take in as much as I can and let my own essence corrupt it. The ritual of binding the pure with the impure is vital to the process. It only takes a few seconds for her blood to become properly tainted, and then I give it all back to you. It will be similar to the bite I give her, but it’s a reversal of the flow, forcing her altered blood into your body. When I am done, you will experience what we call a living death. For some, it is only mildly uncomfortable. For others, it is quite painful. For most, it’s somewhere in between.”
Then, whether or not you have changed your mind, I embrace you. As you are taken by the throes of living death, you catch glimpses of your sister on the floor, too weak to do anything but stare at the ceiling. She’s not dead. Not yet. A couple of weeks in a hospital and numerous transfusions, and she’ll be fine…provided she’s found soon enough.
Of course, you won’t be there to watch her recover, if she ever does. No, you and I must leave the scene as swiftly as possible, and get back to a safe house until we can catch a night flight the next day back to CA. You will never, ever be able to see her again. Any attempt to do so – to reattach yourself to your old life – will complicate things for our community, and likely lead to a sentence of final dawn. No more sunrises. No more sunsets. Do you enjoy food? You can forget that aspect of mortal life, because you will be on a diet that strictly consists of blood…
But this is imagination at play, dear Bunny. I refuse to prey on the young, and an adult virgin is a rarity. It’s why I have yet to have a sireling of my own. Besides, I would much rather keep you as a fan.
There is, of course, one thing about the above fantasy that truly bothers me. Imagine the true horror of ruining a $3,000 suit!
Friday, August 22, 2008
"The greatest trick...
...the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." I love that line from The Usual Suspects. And if that statement were taken as an axiom, then we are all devils in our own right.
I've been busy since waking in July, catching up with the world and its new found wonders. Not only did Eddie buy a personal computer, (which was obviously not a Commodore 64 as I had suspected when I'd hung up the cell phone), but also something called a DVD player and more than a few DVDs. Along with several excellent films, there was an abundant supply of what we both refer to as comedies.
Take this "Blade" character. "Ooooh...The Day Walker!" If any such thing were vaguely possible, vampyres across the globe have chased after it centuries ago. The last thing we'd do is speak with the shock and awe of the vampyres depicted in the film. No, we'd hunt him down and dissect him until all the secrets of his very existence were revealed. That trilogy of film brought about many bits of interesting of fiction. Using the most powerful sun block to walk in the Purity...disintegrating at the instant of final death...our flesh burning from ultraviolet light. Silliness to the highest degree.
I feel it important to dispel some of these illusions before I go on with anything else, as I sense e-mails and comments will start occupying most of my time on this Internet. Oh, I certainly invite people to ask questions, but I honestly don't want to waste time on foolishness brought to my attention because some writer out there has an over-active imagination.
There is only one circumstance that would cause a vampyre to turn to ash rapidly, and that's exposure to the sun. It's the most agonizing 60 seconds one can experience. Medical science tells us that searing the flesh will cause the nervous system to shut down, blessedly relieving someone being immolated of ongoing pain. That's not the case for a vampyre. We feel it the whole time; every ounce of suffering registers, and I only know of only a few that managed to hold back their screams for a bit before attempting to vocalize what was being felt. On those occasions that I was exposed to sun, I did not prove to be so strong. There are no words to properly describe the sensation. I would suggest bathing in a pool of magma, but then you'd never survive long enough to gain a full understanding.
Another little known fact is that a dead vampyre exposed to the Purity does not turn to ash. Such a thing only happens if a "living" member of the brethren is left in the light.
The Purity. That's what we sometimes call the sun. You see, there is a degree of mysticism behind our existence. Becoming one of the undead is a somewhat complicated process, and we come away with our immortal souls tainted. For all of the imaginative inventions of books and movies, it is the purity of sunlight that burns us to cinders.
The next comedic aspect on the list is holy water. Please, people...it's water! Water "blessed" by a man, no less. In a conversation with one of the sisters some time ago, she had this to say: "After 283 years, I have yet to meet the mortal that is without so much as a drop of sin marring his soul. Until G-d, Himself, comes down from on high and blesses the water, we will be able to bathe in the stuff."
Oh...I should get this out of the way before people wonder. We have taken on the habit of the Hebrews and refuse to spell out His name. It may be mere superstition or it could be actual fact, but we don't speak of Him for fear of drawing His eyes to us. For that reason, we skip the O when speaking of G-d.
Garlic, not casting a shadow, no reflection in mirrors, unable to cross running water, holy symbols, inability to enter a private place without invitation...I honestly don't know who comes up with all of this nonsense. My collection of holy symbols, either for their artistry or because they're antiques, certainly dismisses that myth.
A stake through the heart...Now there we have a touch of the truth. It will paralyze us. Not the "limp as a rag doll" kind of paralysis, but a "locked in position like a marble statue" kind of paralysis. Of course, getting a stake into the heart of a vampyre is the real trick. First of all, you need the right kind of stake, and if you think I'm telling you what it needs to be made of, you're barking up the wrong tree. Your next problem is trying to get the stake into the heart of an active vampyre. We don't sleep as deeply as some stories would like you to believe. We are not immobile or in a coma. Most of us sleep in something that makes noise. Even those who go with a traditional coffin use the "squeaky hinge" trick. Those noises tend to get the vampyre awake, out of bed, and very mobile. If the one holding the stake is a mere mortal, then it is between you and G-d as to who will win...the human or the supernatural creature of the night?
While our bodies can take a great deal of abuse, we have our limits. Severe brain trauma, separating the head from the neck, draining the vampyre empty, or chewing up the body so badly that it can't be recognized - such as with a wood-chipper - usually does the trick.
So let's take a slightly closer look at our dearly departed miscreant, Sean McCullough. Eddie dislodged enough of Sean's brain box to put an end to that fiasco. Rather than posing any kind of problem by leaving his corpse behind, it was a boon, as it stopped the police from eying any feeding vampyres and lovers nibbling on one another's necks. The former scenario would have been a true disaster, because the victim of a feeding would likely be closely examined and wind up providing all the evidence needed to confirm out existence.
Eddie did some minimal checking and confirmed Sean was autopsied. That's as far as Eddie's efforts went, because it was well-known what would be found in a detailed examination of the corpse. The organs don't look any different than a mortal's. Extending our canines takes concentration, and when said concentration is lost, they retract. (To be honest, we can extend all of our teeth, but we're looking to puncture for sustenance, not savage the body for a blood bath.) No doubt Sean lost all concentration when he lost most of his head, so his canines retracted. As for blood tests, a coroner would find the victim was suffering from hemolytic anemia, which is a disease that causes the breakdown of red blood cells faster that the body can reproduce them. (The truth is more complicated than that, but to the mortal eye, that's all that can be seen.)
In this way, mankind lends a hand in maintaining our nonexistence.
I've been busy since waking in July, catching up with the world and its new found wonders. Not only did Eddie buy a personal computer, (which was obviously not a Commodore 64 as I had suspected when I'd hung up the cell phone), but also something called a DVD player and more than a few DVDs. Along with several excellent films, there was an abundant supply of what we both refer to as comedies.
Take this "Blade" character. "Ooooh...The Day Walker!" If any such thing were vaguely possible, vampyres across the globe have chased after it centuries ago. The last thing we'd do is speak with the shock and awe of the vampyres depicted in the film. No, we'd hunt him down and dissect him until all the secrets of his very existence were revealed. That trilogy of film brought about many bits of interesting of fiction. Using the most powerful sun block to walk in the Purity...disintegrating at the instant of final death...our flesh burning from ultraviolet light. Silliness to the highest degree.
I feel it important to dispel some of these illusions before I go on with anything else, as I sense e-mails and comments will start occupying most of my time on this Internet. Oh, I certainly invite people to ask questions, but I honestly don't want to waste time on foolishness brought to my attention because some writer out there has an over-active imagination.
There is only one circumstance that would cause a vampyre to turn to ash rapidly, and that's exposure to the sun. It's the most agonizing 60 seconds one can experience. Medical science tells us that searing the flesh will cause the nervous system to shut down, blessedly relieving someone being immolated of ongoing pain. That's not the case for a vampyre. We feel it the whole time; every ounce of suffering registers, and I only know of only a few that managed to hold back their screams for a bit before attempting to vocalize what was being felt. On those occasions that I was exposed to sun, I did not prove to be so strong. There are no words to properly describe the sensation. I would suggest bathing in a pool of magma, but then you'd never survive long enough to gain a full understanding.
Another little known fact is that a dead vampyre exposed to the Purity does not turn to ash. Such a thing only happens if a "living" member of the brethren is left in the light.
The Purity. That's what we sometimes call the sun. You see, there is a degree of mysticism behind our existence. Becoming one of the undead is a somewhat complicated process, and we come away with our immortal souls tainted. For all of the imaginative inventions of books and movies, it is the purity of sunlight that burns us to cinders.
The next comedic aspect on the list is holy water. Please, people...it's water! Water "blessed" by a man, no less. In a conversation with one of the sisters some time ago, she had this to say: "After 283 years, I have yet to meet the mortal that is without so much as a drop of sin marring his soul. Until G-d, Himself, comes down from on high and blesses the water, we will be able to bathe in the stuff."
Oh...I should get this out of the way before people wonder. We have taken on the habit of the Hebrews and refuse to spell out His name. It may be mere superstition or it could be actual fact, but we don't speak of Him for fear of drawing His eyes to us. For that reason, we skip the O when speaking of G-d.
Garlic, not casting a shadow, no reflection in mirrors, unable to cross running water, holy symbols, inability to enter a private place without invitation...I honestly don't know who comes up with all of this nonsense. My collection of holy symbols, either for their artistry or because they're antiques, certainly dismisses that myth.
A stake through the heart...Now there we have a touch of the truth. It will paralyze us. Not the "limp as a rag doll" kind of paralysis, but a "locked in position like a marble statue" kind of paralysis. Of course, getting a stake into the heart of a vampyre is the real trick. First of all, you need the right kind of stake, and if you think I'm telling you what it needs to be made of, you're barking up the wrong tree. Your next problem is trying to get the stake into the heart of an active vampyre. We don't sleep as deeply as some stories would like you to believe. We are not immobile or in a coma. Most of us sleep in something that makes noise. Even those who go with a traditional coffin use the "squeaky hinge" trick. Those noises tend to get the vampyre awake, out of bed, and very mobile. If the one holding the stake is a mere mortal, then it is between you and G-d as to who will win...the human or the supernatural creature of the night?
While our bodies can take a great deal of abuse, we have our limits. Severe brain trauma, separating the head from the neck, draining the vampyre empty, or chewing up the body so badly that it can't be recognized - such as with a wood-chipper - usually does the trick.
So let's take a slightly closer look at our dearly departed miscreant, Sean McCullough. Eddie dislodged enough of Sean's brain box to put an end to that fiasco. Rather than posing any kind of problem by leaving his corpse behind, it was a boon, as it stopped the police from eying any feeding vampyres and lovers nibbling on one another's necks. The former scenario would have been a true disaster, because the victim of a feeding would likely be closely examined and wind up providing all the evidence needed to confirm out existence.
Eddie did some minimal checking and confirmed Sean was autopsied. That's as far as Eddie's efforts went, because it was well-known what would be found in a detailed examination of the corpse. The organs don't look any different than a mortal's. Extending our canines takes concentration, and when said concentration is lost, they retract. (To be honest, we can extend all of our teeth, but we're looking to puncture for sustenance, not savage the body for a blood bath.) No doubt Sean lost all concentration when he lost most of his head, so his canines retracted. As for blood tests, a coroner would find the victim was suffering from hemolytic anemia, which is a disease that causes the breakdown of red blood cells faster that the body can reproduce them. (The truth is more complicated than that, but to the mortal eye, that's all that can be seen.)
In this way, mankind lends a hand in maintaining our nonexistence.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Learning Curve
An hour before sundown. How typical that I should sleep for so long, only to awaken with the habit of rising early. At least my home is secure against sunlight, or I would have to lie in bed for that extra time until it was safe.
A glance at the big picture indicates that 25 years is not a long time. The very planet has been around a lot longer than that. But humanity and its ingenuity seem quite capable of speeding things along in a quarter century.
Take this "Internet." Data scattered electronically all over the globe, and all one needs is the savvy to milk it to find one's desires. However, care must be taken at every keystroke. It's not called the "misinformation highway" for nothing.
My first call was to Eddie using a fascinating little device called a "cell phone." I can only guess that it gets its name from its size. It's practically microscopic! And so many functions packed into it! Aside from its capacity to make a phone call, it also seems to be able to make movies, take pictures, store and play music, and play video games! Thankfully, Eddie left simple instructions on how to call him, rather than leave it to me to leaf through the sizable manual until I found the information I needed.
The first order of business from him was an explanation of some changes. One of our brethren took our secrets and dragged them into the public light, which had a reverse effect. In 1991, using the nom de plume of Mark Rein-Hagen, Jean-Paul du Lac released a game called Vampire: The Masquerade. The initial reaction from our kind, as I understand it, was one of panic; some of our greatest secrets were now available at any book store. Instead of taking it seriously, however, it was seen by mortals as merely a game and a great source of fiction. Oh, some have taken it as far as to engage in something called "live-action role-playing." Overall, the brethren's first reaction was much ado about nothing.
In turn, our society adapted certain aspects of this "game." Princes, Princesses, Barons, Governors, and Dukes were established around the globe. The other thing that seeped into our ways was a reference to the character sheet used in the game. It affected our way of speaking about others. Some examples:
1. "Careful. He's got all his dots in his arms and none in his head." This refers to someone who prefers to talk with his fists.
2. "Too many skills, not enough dots." It's our way of describing a witless wonder.
3. "I'll need more dice." More of something is needed. Be it time, resources, money, equipment...Usually its exact context is understood only by those directly involved in that particular conversation.
After these bits of information, Eddie told me exactly what happened after Sean attacked me. "If there were any dots in his head at the start, he erased them," Eddie said. "He double-clamped your jugular (meaning that he was feeding on me using all four canines, instead of just the upper set, as is normal). I didn't know that, so when I tried to pull him off you, a good chunk of your neck went with him. I was so freaked out that he'd started feeding on one of us that I didn't notice. Only thing going through my head was to remove his. None of it was pretty. My swing with the machete was wild, and kind of cut diagonally, from his right ear to his left shoulder. Only when I saw what was left of his jaw still trying to chew on nothing did I see bits of your neck stuck in his teeth. Then I really freaked, because one look at you and I could see you weren't closing."
Closing. It's a natural function of a brethren's body to seal a wound almost instantly. There are two primary reasons why closing would not occur. Either the wound is so severe that it requires extra time, or the body is so weak that it hasn't the strength to accomplish the deed. In my case, it might well have been both. You see, neither Eddie nor I could estimate how long Sean was feeding on me. No one stops to check the time under uncontrolled circumstances. Suffice to say, less than another minute and I would not be writing this.
"Anyway, I decorated the loon's body just enough to identify him as a cop-killer," Eddie continued, "which meant five-oh wasn't gonna be working too hard to find the 'vigilantes' that took care of justice for them.
"But then there was the joy of getting you back to your place and getting you to bed. First order of business was to get you some juice. I knew the younger the better, with 'nerd blood' being as close to a virgin as we were gonna get at that late hour. So I rubber-stamped (Eddie's way of saying he knocked someone out without really hurting them) some geek near the University of Redlands - the one in Burbank - and got him to you. Gave you just enough so that I wasn't completely dragging you every step of the way, and then we were headed back to your place."
It occurs to me that our kind tends to be a vicious lot. Feeding off one another may be taboo, but that doesn't mean an associate won't hesitate to put a live grenade in your mouth when you're at your weakest. But Eddie...For all his scheming and scamming, he's a stand up guy when he considers you a friend.
Eddie went on. "I knew you were still in real bad shape. I didn't know it was 25 years worth of bad shape, but bad shape nonetheless. You were gonna need someone to look after your affairs while you recovered, and I kinda figured I was responsible for getting you into this mess. So I asked you where you kept your 'care package' was, and, boy, I think you were all too happy to tell me. If you had a sister for sale, I could've bought her for a quarter!"
You need to understand...A "care package" is both a curse and a blessing. It's paperwork you sign that allows a third party to handle all of your affairs should you become incapacitated. It's a blessing if you have an Eddie of your own, because you know he'll do right by you. It's a curse if you make the mistake of signing control over to some self-involved idiot who'll drag you out into the sun the first chance he gets, then make off with everything thing you own.
My call with Eddie was rapidly coming to a close. "I'll be by in a few days," he said, "so we can go over some papers and you can see exactly what I did while you napped. By the way, your property taxes are insane. You were good on the financial front, but I took the liberty of re-investing some of the extra so you'd wake up and not have to worry about earning your next dollar right away. I had Cheryl handle the legalities of all that, including the taxes on earned interest.
"Speaking of Cheryl, it was either me or her that kept an eye on you. Every night, man, for twenty-five years. One of us would always check on you.
"In the downstairs storage, you'll find some grade A juice stored away. No bitching allowed that it's cold. I've been swapping it out whenever the date said it expired, cause I knew you'd need some 'get-up-and-go' right away when you decided to drag your lazy ass out of bed.
"Upstairs, you'll find the place spotless. Had a cleaning crew come in once every four months the dust the place down. Since regular people-types don't know where your real bed is, there was nothing to worry about. You'll also find that I added some furniture and something called a 'personal computer.' Man, I can't wait for you to find out what that baby can do."
We said our good-byes and he hung up, leaving me to imagine why he could possibly be so excited over a computer. I mean, really...What's so impressive about a Commodore 64?
A glance at the big picture indicates that 25 years is not a long time. The very planet has been around a lot longer than that. But humanity and its ingenuity seem quite capable of speeding things along in a quarter century.
Take this "Internet." Data scattered electronically all over the globe, and all one needs is the savvy to milk it to find one's desires. However, care must be taken at every keystroke. It's not called the "misinformation highway" for nothing.
My first call was to Eddie using a fascinating little device called a "cell phone." I can only guess that it gets its name from its size. It's practically microscopic! And so many functions packed into it! Aside from its capacity to make a phone call, it also seems to be able to make movies, take pictures, store and play music, and play video games! Thankfully, Eddie left simple instructions on how to call him, rather than leave it to me to leaf through the sizable manual until I found the information I needed.
The first order of business from him was an explanation of some changes. One of our brethren took our secrets and dragged them into the public light, which had a reverse effect. In 1991, using the nom de plume of Mark Rein-Hagen, Jean-Paul du Lac released a game called Vampire: The Masquerade. The initial reaction from our kind, as I understand it, was one of panic; some of our greatest secrets were now available at any book store. Instead of taking it seriously, however, it was seen by mortals as merely a game and a great source of fiction. Oh, some have taken it as far as to engage in something called "live-action role-playing." Overall, the brethren's first reaction was much ado about nothing.
In turn, our society adapted certain aspects of this "game." Princes, Princesses, Barons, Governors, and Dukes were established around the globe. The other thing that seeped into our ways was a reference to the character sheet used in the game. It affected our way of speaking about others. Some examples:
1. "Careful. He's got all his dots in his arms and none in his head." This refers to someone who prefers to talk with his fists.
2. "Too many skills, not enough dots." It's our way of describing a witless wonder.
3. "I'll need more dice." More of something is needed. Be it time, resources, money, equipment...Usually its exact context is understood only by those directly involved in that particular conversation.
After these bits of information, Eddie told me exactly what happened after Sean attacked me. "If there were any dots in his head at the start, he erased them," Eddie said. "He double-clamped your jugular (meaning that he was feeding on me using all four canines, instead of just the upper set, as is normal). I didn't know that, so when I tried to pull him off you, a good chunk of your neck went with him. I was so freaked out that he'd started feeding on one of us that I didn't notice. Only thing going through my head was to remove his. None of it was pretty. My swing with the machete was wild, and kind of cut diagonally, from his right ear to his left shoulder. Only when I saw what was left of his jaw still trying to chew on nothing did I see bits of your neck stuck in his teeth. Then I really freaked, because one look at you and I could see you weren't closing."
Closing. It's a natural function of a brethren's body to seal a wound almost instantly. There are two primary reasons why closing would not occur. Either the wound is so severe that it requires extra time, or the body is so weak that it hasn't the strength to accomplish the deed. In my case, it might well have been both. You see, neither Eddie nor I could estimate how long Sean was feeding on me. No one stops to check the time under uncontrolled circumstances. Suffice to say, less than another minute and I would not be writing this.
"Anyway, I decorated the loon's body just enough to identify him as a cop-killer," Eddie continued, "which meant five-oh wasn't gonna be working too hard to find the 'vigilantes' that took care of justice for them.
"But then there was the joy of getting you back to your place and getting you to bed. First order of business was to get you some juice. I knew the younger the better, with 'nerd blood' being as close to a virgin as we were gonna get at that late hour. So I rubber-stamped (Eddie's way of saying he knocked someone out without really hurting them) some geek near the University of Redlands - the one in Burbank - and got him to you. Gave you just enough so that I wasn't completely dragging you every step of the way, and then we were headed back to your place."
It occurs to me that our kind tends to be a vicious lot. Feeding off one another may be taboo, but that doesn't mean an associate won't hesitate to put a live grenade in your mouth when you're at your weakest. But Eddie...For all his scheming and scamming, he's a stand up guy when he considers you a friend.
Eddie went on. "I knew you were still in real bad shape. I didn't know it was 25 years worth of bad shape, but bad shape nonetheless. You were gonna need someone to look after your affairs while you recovered, and I kinda figured I was responsible for getting you into this mess. So I asked you where you kept your 'care package' was, and, boy, I think you were all too happy to tell me. If you had a sister for sale, I could've bought her for a quarter!"
You need to understand...A "care package" is both a curse and a blessing. It's paperwork you sign that allows a third party to handle all of your affairs should you become incapacitated. It's a blessing if you have an Eddie of your own, because you know he'll do right by you. It's a curse if you make the mistake of signing control over to some self-involved idiot who'll drag you out into the sun the first chance he gets, then make off with everything thing you own.
My call with Eddie was rapidly coming to a close. "I'll be by in a few days," he said, "so we can go over some papers and you can see exactly what I did while you napped. By the way, your property taxes are insane. You were good on the financial front, but I took the liberty of re-investing some of the extra so you'd wake up and not have to worry about earning your next dollar right away. I had Cheryl handle the legalities of all that, including the taxes on earned interest.
"Speaking of Cheryl, it was either me or her that kept an eye on you. Every night, man, for twenty-five years. One of us would always check on you.
"In the downstairs storage, you'll find some grade A juice stored away. No bitching allowed that it's cold. I've been swapping it out whenever the date said it expired, cause I knew you'd need some 'get-up-and-go' right away when you decided to drag your lazy ass out of bed.
"Upstairs, you'll find the place spotless. Had a cleaning crew come in once every four months the dust the place down. Since regular people-types don't know where your real bed is, there was nothing to worry about. You'll also find that I added some furniture and something called a 'personal computer.' Man, I can't wait for you to find out what that baby can do."
We said our good-byes and he hung up, leaving me to imagine why he could possibly be so excited over a computer. I mean, really...What's so impressive about a Commodore 64?
A short nap.
Twenty-five years. That's how long I've slept, hidden in a chamber beneath my mansion in the Hollywood Hills. This was no mean feat. Documents were signed and large sums of money exchanged hands before I could get my rest. This takes a bit of explanation, so I ask that you be patient as I tell you in detail what happened.
It started with Eddie Carbone, who embraced a con artist named Sean McCullough.
Eddie was what some might call an "entrepreneur" who headed an organization that excelled in manipulating and skirting the laws of the United States. His main source of income was phony charitable organizations. As long as a mere 5% of the donations he gathered went to that which he was chartered, he could keep the rest. And how could he lose with the name "Disabled Veterans Assistance Program," also known as D-VAP? Oh, it was perfect! His employees wore shirts with the name of his group, and the marks bought into all four words. "Disabled Veterans?" Those were the two that grabbed the public's attention. "Assistance Program?" Well, whatever Eddies organization was helping the vets with, it could be nothing bad, especially when all of the employees on the street carried laminated licenses.
Working the wealthiest corners in Hollywood, Eddie had 50 men and women on the streets, each bringing in around $1,000 a night. His men would take home 10% of the take. That precious 5% was set aside to be distributed on the second Friday of each month. That left Eddie with $42,500 a night to himself. From his personal income, I was given 10%; that's $4,250 for a variety of services that I provided.
Along came Sean McCullough. Twenty-eight, handsome, smart, and simply going through a rough time. This kid came to Hollywood expecting his good looks to carry him onto the silver screen. Unfortunately, he had all the acting skill of hunk of granite. That is, he wasn't talented enough for directors and producers. He had plenty of acting ability to fool Eddie.
Embraced in 1923, you'd think Eddie could spot a con from five miles away. Add his natural 40 natural years to the 60 unnatural, and one could easily say he had plenty of experience under his belt. I was embraced the night of May 5, 1864, and I was 27 at the time. That was 146 years of experience on my part, and Sean even fooled me on the few times I met him.
He had charm. The kind of charisma that could be used to sell prescription glasses to someone without eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why this kid couldn't get a job acting. Was he running his mouth off too much to be considered for even bit parts? Whatever the case may be, I received a disconcerting call from Eddie in July on 1983.
Eddie: Chuck! How's it going?
Me: Good, as long as you don't need me to draw up another half dozen legal documents for you.
Eddie: Nah, nothing like that. I wanted your opinion on something.
Me: Gods above and below! If it's about a woman again, you should know better.
Eddie: No, no. It's this kid working for me...Sean. You remember him?
Me: Pretty boy...Doe eyes...Three horror stories about his life for every good one, right?
Eddie: That's the one. What would you say if I said I was thinking about embracing him?
Here's the deal. In the circles we move in, you don't even mention something like this unless you can give three extremely good reasons to want to do it. I can't say Eddie's reasons were the best, but they were good. First, the personal boost would probably improve the kid's outlook; even as a fledgling, the embrace is enough to change anyone's life for the better...as long as he keeps his head on straight. The next reason was kind of a requirement: know the subject for at least three months. In that time, Sean had been a good boy, and was actually bringing in more money than the rest of Eddie's employees. Finally, Eddie was thinking of promoting the kid to a kind of enforcer to watch over the others. Having someone on hand that was faster and stronger than anyone that'd harass his employees was an all-around bonus, and would stop Eddie from having to get his hands dirty.
I played it safe by avoiding any kind of real commitment. I didn't know Sean, and I was busy cleaning up a mess in Vegas at the time. I told Eddie that he knew whom he had to call for approval, and left it at that.
That approval was given...unfortunately.
Sean turned out to be one of those people who knew the truth about us and never even hinted that he held such knowledge. He played Eddie like a concert pianist, and Eddie was 88 keys waiting to be manipulated.
Once Sean was inducted into our exclusive club and received the "tutorial" on proper behavior, he started writing his own rules. For three days, Hollywood lived under a reign of terror, with reports of some kind of cannibal slaughtering innocents at random. Age, sex, race, religion...None of it mattered. Sean was blood-hungry, and he didn't give a damn if there were witnesses.
Eddie had plenty of people to call in, but our long association made me the one he trusted most. It was also part of my job to keep such incidents under wraps. So I caught a flight just after sundown, and Eddie and I went Sean hunting.
Remember when I said Sean was smart? Well, he was...but not that smart. He established a kind of "game trail." Even the cops caught onto it early, and they paid for it with three very messy corpses.
Eddie and I formed a simple plan. I would play bait. When Sean moved in, I would keep him mildly entertained while Eddie moved in to eliminate his rogue sireling. To be sure Sean would come after me, I used my rather rare talent of "tailoring." That is, I can alter my appearance to enough of an extent that I'm not easily recognized.
Our plan worked. Sean came at me...and it seemed there was no stopping him. Keeping to his own set of rules, he committed what we consider one of the greater sins. He successfully got me locked up and began to feed on me!
From there, I can recall only bits and pieces of what followed. I remember Sean's head coming off, and Eddie dragging me away from the whole messy scenario. He had to help me hold a pen to sign some legal documents, and promised to take care of my financial affairs until I recovered. Then he put me to "bed." The last thing I remember was him closing the lid and saying, "Don't worry about it, Chuck. Get all the rest you need, and we'll talk soon.
Neither of us had a clue that I'd take a nap for 25 years, waking in July of 2008.
It started with Eddie Carbone, who embraced a con artist named Sean McCullough.
Eddie was what some might call an "entrepreneur" who headed an organization that excelled in manipulating and skirting the laws of the United States. His main source of income was phony charitable organizations. As long as a mere 5% of the donations he gathered went to that which he was chartered, he could keep the rest. And how could he lose with the name "Disabled Veterans Assistance Program," also known as D-VAP? Oh, it was perfect! His employees wore shirts with the name of his group, and the marks bought into all four words. "Disabled Veterans?" Those were the two that grabbed the public's attention. "Assistance Program?" Well, whatever Eddies organization was helping the vets with, it could be nothing bad, especially when all of the employees on the street carried laminated licenses.
Working the wealthiest corners in Hollywood, Eddie had 50 men and women on the streets, each bringing in around $1,000 a night. His men would take home 10% of the take. That precious 5% was set aside to be distributed on the second Friday of each month. That left Eddie with $42,500 a night to himself. From his personal income, I was given 10%; that's $4,250 for a variety of services that I provided.
Along came Sean McCullough. Twenty-eight, handsome, smart, and simply going through a rough time. This kid came to Hollywood expecting his good looks to carry him onto the silver screen. Unfortunately, he had all the acting skill of hunk of granite. That is, he wasn't talented enough for directors and producers. He had plenty of acting ability to fool Eddie.
Embraced in 1923, you'd think Eddie could spot a con from five miles away. Add his natural 40 natural years to the 60 unnatural, and one could easily say he had plenty of experience under his belt. I was embraced the night of May 5, 1864, and I was 27 at the time. That was 146 years of experience on my part, and Sean even fooled me on the few times I met him.
He had charm. The kind of charisma that could be used to sell prescription glasses to someone without eyes. I couldn't help but wonder why this kid couldn't get a job acting. Was he running his mouth off too much to be considered for even bit parts? Whatever the case may be, I received a disconcerting call from Eddie in July on 1983.
Eddie: Chuck! How's it going?
Me: Good, as long as you don't need me to draw up another half dozen legal documents for you.
Eddie: Nah, nothing like that. I wanted your opinion on something.
Me: Gods above and below! If it's about a woman again, you should know better.
Eddie: No, no. It's this kid working for me...Sean. You remember him?
Me: Pretty boy...Doe eyes...Three horror stories about his life for every good one, right?
Eddie: That's the one. What would you say if I said I was thinking about embracing him?
Here's the deal. In the circles we move in, you don't even mention something like this unless you can give three extremely good reasons to want to do it. I can't say Eddie's reasons were the best, but they were good. First, the personal boost would probably improve the kid's outlook; even as a fledgling, the embrace is enough to change anyone's life for the better...as long as he keeps his head on straight. The next reason was kind of a requirement: know the subject for at least three months. In that time, Sean had been a good boy, and was actually bringing in more money than the rest of Eddie's employees. Finally, Eddie was thinking of promoting the kid to a kind of enforcer to watch over the others. Having someone on hand that was faster and stronger than anyone that'd harass his employees was an all-around bonus, and would stop Eddie from having to get his hands dirty.
I played it safe by avoiding any kind of real commitment. I didn't know Sean, and I was busy cleaning up a mess in Vegas at the time. I told Eddie that he knew whom he had to call for approval, and left it at that.
That approval was given...unfortunately.
Sean turned out to be one of those people who knew the truth about us and never even hinted that he held such knowledge. He played Eddie like a concert pianist, and Eddie was 88 keys waiting to be manipulated.
Once Sean was inducted into our exclusive club and received the "tutorial" on proper behavior, he started writing his own rules. For three days, Hollywood lived under a reign of terror, with reports of some kind of cannibal slaughtering innocents at random. Age, sex, race, religion...None of it mattered. Sean was blood-hungry, and he didn't give a damn if there were witnesses.
Eddie had plenty of people to call in, but our long association made me the one he trusted most. It was also part of my job to keep such incidents under wraps. So I caught a flight just after sundown, and Eddie and I went Sean hunting.
Remember when I said Sean was smart? Well, he was...but not that smart. He established a kind of "game trail." Even the cops caught onto it early, and they paid for it with three very messy corpses.
Eddie and I formed a simple plan. I would play bait. When Sean moved in, I would keep him mildly entertained while Eddie moved in to eliminate his rogue sireling. To be sure Sean would come after me, I used my rather rare talent of "tailoring." That is, I can alter my appearance to enough of an extent that I'm not easily recognized.
Our plan worked. Sean came at me...and it seemed there was no stopping him. Keeping to his own set of rules, he committed what we consider one of the greater sins. He successfully got me locked up and began to feed on me!
From there, I can recall only bits and pieces of what followed. I remember Sean's head coming off, and Eddie dragging me away from the whole messy scenario. He had to help me hold a pen to sign some legal documents, and promised to take care of my financial affairs until I recovered. Then he put me to "bed." The last thing I remember was him closing the lid and saying, "Don't worry about it, Chuck. Get all the rest you need, and we'll talk soon.
Neither of us had a clue that I'd take a nap for 25 years, waking in July of 2008.
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